Comparative Loneliness
by James P. Darcy
Summary: Molly has learned to prefer her own company. Mycroft believes that caring is not an advantage. Through a series of incidents, with Sherlock at the epicenter, they both discover how wrong they've been.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock in any fashion, from any series of any kind. **

This is my first Mollycroft experiment that's been tumbling around in my head for days now. Expect it to be rather brief, as I prefer working with shorter pieces about 3 to 5 chapters in length. I should also note that, as an American, my British slang is needing work.

**Comparative Loneliness**

_Up 'n down_

_Ferris wheel_

_Tell me how does it feel_

_To be so high..._

_Looking down here_

_Is it lonely?_

- Norah Jones

* * *

The soft thump that came from the living room, the same sound that strangely woke her from a rather deep sleep, could not have been Toby. Molly felt the softness of his fur beneath her fingertips, his small chest cavity rumbling with a deep purr. There was only one other explanation.

_Sherlock._

She rubbed her eyes with the back of her fist and maneuvered through the sheets that had wrapped around her flannel-clad legs. Her temporary flatmate had often scoffed at her attire, but she was too tired to change for him. What time was it, anyway?

_4:30 a.m._

The illuminated screen of her cell phone told her as much. The bright and shiny new thing that she hadn't quite figured how to use yet now served as a pretty clock. Strangely, Sherlock hadn't been the one to suggest the device. His older brother had.

* * *

_Molly hated to swim. She was never much fond of sporting activities in general, really. But she did love the heady warmth of the pool air, thick with the stench of chlorine. It would stick to her skin for hours, but Molly never minded. It was clean. Sterile. A perfect way to finish off a day of elbow-deep organ fishing._

_Her job as a whole was very malodorous. Even a shower after work hardly put a dent in the odd combination of scents she carried with her. Molly was often self-conscious about it, although discarded perfume. It made matters worse. _

_The sanitation of a nightly swim, however, tempered the strong aroma._

_With one mostly graceful dive, Molly felt the momentary chill of the water as her body adjusted to its temperature. It was both shocking and refreshing, being encompassed by the pressure of fluid. She often imagined the inner workings of the body, that this must be what being an organ felt like, and so on. She never voiced such thoughts. _

_She surfaced with a gasp, enjoying those last moments before her lungs gave out. Molly wasn't the gambling sort, but the adrenaline rush as her stomach grazed the bottom of the deep end, with her oxygen supply so far above, was strangely exhilarating. Perhaps one detective's interference in her life had caused the change._

_The water gently sloshed over her arms as she 'front crawled' her way to the pool's deck. The tiny tiles were smooth beneath her finger tips as she hauled one elbow over the lip of the edge, and then the other, underarms holding her body upright as she wiped the water from her eyes. Thankfully she had chosen not to wear mascara that day._

_The soft rumble of a throat clearing alerted Molly to a stranger's presence. She immediately dropped her hands and looked up._

_"Good evening, Miss Hooper."_

_He was a sight to behold, Mycroft Holmes. So out of place in his dark, clearly expensive suit. His polished loafers gleaming even under the dim pool lights. Molly hadn't realized that she had been thoroughly inspecting him before the throat cleared again._

_"I have procured a towel."_

_So he had. The burgundy fabric, lush and thick, hung over one forearm. She glanced quickly at her own towel, a ratty, once-white rag that she'd grabbed in her morning rush. "Ah...th-thank you, Mr. Holmes." She met his eyes briefly. They were dark and focused. "Oh! And good evening to you, too!"_

_Molly had not interacted with Mycroft very often. Only thrice before that moment. Each time never seemed to get easier. In fact, she was certain that his presence unnerved her all the more. It was then that she realized he was waiting for her._

_With a blush that deepened and dropped to her chest, full bloom – she was always embarrassed about that, damned pale skin! – Molly used the slight strength of her arms to pull herself out of the water. She was intensely aware of the heavy gaze on her bare back, where her modest one-piece cut away. It was not sexual, from what she could ascertain. Neither of the Holmes asserted themselves sexually –at least toward her. Discounting the times that Sherlock purposely flirted to manipulate her. Yes, she knew about that. No, Mycroft's stare seemed purely clinical. She wondered what he was deducing from her love handles. _

_It only took Molly a moment to stand and find herself face-to-chest with the eldest Holmes. She shivered, and he must have taken pity on her, because he successfully wrapped the towel completely around her. It was rather large. More so than any she had ever owned. Softer too. Although she wouldn't have expected less from a man who had emeralds in his cuff links. _

_"Thank you," she murmured._

_He gave her a clipped nod and pulled a rectangle box from the inside of his trench. "You are lacking a necessary tool, Miss Hooper. Due to your involvement in my brother's current activities, I have obtained one for you."_

_Molly grasped the box with the pruney fingers of one hand. He hadn't bothered wrapping it, which was just as well. She didn't have the extra hand to deal with bows and shiny paper anyway._

_"Allow me."_

_With a moment's pause, she observed his long fingers, suspended mid-air, waiting for her. Molly mumbled an apology for making him wait, for not being able to open her own damned present, and other things that she knew she'd do incorrectly later. She watched as he deftly lifted the lid and discarded it. _

_Molly gasped in a manner that suggested diamonds. Or perhaps a very nice pen._

_"But – a mobile? I...thank you, but..."_

_Mycroft smirked in a self-satisfied way that shut Molly up instantly. "You will find directions included. See to the second page. It will tell you how to reach me if you need my assistance."_

_She couldn't begin to wonder what she could possibly need him for. The thought was actually rather terrifying. "With Sher-?" she pressed her lips thin, halting the name before it slipped. Glancing this way and that, Molly continued, "With HIM?"_

_He had turned away from her as she inspected the present, but looked over his shoulder as she tripped through her words. His eyebrow rose slightly. "No, Miss Hooper. With you."_

* * *

The phone sat, waiting, as she stared at it a moment longer. Thinking of Mycroft and whatever his aid entailed. He was more of an enigma than she could have ever assumed possible, even after meeting Sherlock. The younger Holmes had motivations that often centered around himself in some fashion, especially where she was concerned. With Mycroft, Molly had a hard time distinguishing when she was being used, praised, or aided. His gifts were always beneficial, but to whom? After a certain point, she forewent thinking and thanked him for his effort, convincing herself that she'd also be bestowing a 'thank you' for whomever else ended up blessed by Mycroft's perverse and rare generosity.

Molly brushed her fingers over the screen, bringing it to life and alerting her to two new messages. She selected them both, quickly skimming one after the other.

_Do remember to lock your door. I am not a watchdog. – SH_

_Do not wait up. – SH_

The immediate chill of fear grip her by the throat, tensing her shoulders and tightening over her spine. The pain flooding from her nervous system was immediate, and she anticipated fight or flight mode. If Sherlock was not in her flat, and Toby was curled on her bed, then...

She wasn't alone.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: This story will flow back and forth, messing with the typical chronological order of things. So keep that in mind while you're reading. I was also thinking about adding a chapter from Mycroft's point of view at some point, if that's of interest.**

**Comparative Loneliness**

In the burning of uncertainty I will be your solid ground  
I will hold the balance if you can't look down

Sarah McLachlan

* * *

_Three weeks earlier..._

Molly never wanted to be _that_ kind of woman. The one who found herself on the unrequited side of love. The one who spent her nights indoors, reading a mystery and petting her cat. The one who could say that and mean it literally and figuratively. At one point, early in her twenties, she had fantasized about adventure. A sweeping romance. But none of that would come for poor Molly Hooper.

The morgue was strangely quiet when she came in that morning. And it stayed that way as the hours slowly passed. It shouldn't have been strange, the quiet, given the nature of morgues and all that. But Molly had become used to the unusual. She glanced at the vacant desk, where a particular microscope used to sit, and studied the emptiness through her spread fingers, the pads of which were massaging the stress from her temples. She wondered briefly how John was. The guilt of her knowledge, that she was chosen for the task and he was not, plagued her more than she'd like to admit. But that was what Molly did - took care of things. She would never admit it aloud, but it was exhausting.

The clock placed high on the sterile white wall of St. Bart's echoed with each tick and tock, mocking the quiet and the time she had to spend in it. At least the current day was over.

Molly replaced her lab coat with a warm grey trench. It belonged to her mother when she was just a girl, and Molly found its design rather charming. She wasn't one to accessorize, not since that dreaded Christmas party, but the red and white striped scarf, for decoration rather than warmth, provided some visual interest. She had been making an effort with her clothing, hoping to procure a sense of accomplishment. As a thirty-something, she should have had her life together. Whatever that completely entailed.

Shuffling to the door with one hand rummaging through her oversized bag, full of books and lip salve, searching for her keys, Molly juggled a cup of cold coffee in the other. Using a balancing act that would have impressed any acrobat, she began flipping light switches and locking doors. Sherlock came and went from her tiny flat, but she hoped that he was in a better mood than he had been in previous days, and hadn't completely destroyed her kitchen or terrorized Toby. She wasn't in the mood to scrape bits of corned beef hash from her ceiling.

With a fair amount of force, Molly pushed the morgue door with her back, barely recognizing the person situated on the other side. She nearly dribbled coffee on a very expensive suit as she bumped into its owner, shoulder to chest. "Oh! Sorry! I'm sor-"

"No harm done, Miss Hooper."

Molly froze, one hand holding the nefarious cup far from both parties. He was the last person she had expected to see that day. But there he was, looking as polished and intimidating as ever. His face unreadable as it had been at Christmas, when he and his brother showed up to identify the body of that woman.

_"How did Sherlock recognize her from...not her face?"_

_The quick smile that followed was kind, but in a way that was meant for a child. For an innocent. A naïve young woman, single with no prospects._

_But he had thanked her. She would remember that small courtesy._

As it were, his presence wasn't entirely unwelcome. Just...surprising.

Mycroft Holmes never sought her out, especially not in person. He had occasionally used Sherlock to relay a message or two, but they were heavily edited by the time they got to her. "D-Did you need something?" She knew he did. He wouldn't have been standing outside the morgue otherwise.

"I require...information." Mycroft studied her carefully, in a way she had seen Sherlock do many times, with a quick sweeping glance. Noticing everything and leaving her exposed. She felt the weight of his gaze in the pit of her stomach, although it rolled into a soft burn instead of the nervous flutter she was used to. "It will only take a moment. Do follow." With that, he plucked the cup from her hand and tossed it in a nearby waste bin. Before she could protest, he placed her free hand in the crook of his arm. "Think of something particularly morose, Miss Hooper." His normally solemn face was transformed by the slight curve of his lips. "Like my dear _departed_ brother overrunning your cramped flat with heads and appendages."

Molly balked.

They walked at a brisk but comfortable pace, Mycroft obviously accounting for their difference in height by not dragging her across Bart's. She decided then that the primary difference between the Holmes brothers was in consideration. The elder seemed to value a gentleman's code of conduct, while the younger would have found such behavior boring and unnecessary. Her palm was warmed by the heat from his arm, which was more solid than she would have expected. For all of Sherlock's insults over his brother's dietary habits, Mycroft appeared healthy – although not particularly lithe and wiry like the younger detective. It was ridiculous, she knew, but he felt _sturdy_. Despite the fact that she found him particularly frightening, Molly also recognized the sense of security she felt while walking beside him. Like traveling with a monster that no one was brave enough to bother.

They passed by a group of her gossipy coworkers, and Molly felt a flush rise up from her throat. They would certainly have something to talk about now. She made it a point to keep her eyes on the shiny tiled floor.

"Good girl."

Molly felt the whispered approval brush over her ear. She glanced at him quickly, discovering the warm smile playing at his lips before it disappeared. "Ah...what?"

He simply patted her fingers where they curled over his forearm.

They walked down the street in silence, narrowly avoiding puddles along the rain-soaked pavement. It could have been five minutes or five hours, she was uncertain, but they eventually stopped in front of a small café. Tiny cakes and delicate pastries filled the windows. Molly didn't indulge, despite what Sherlock might have said about her weight, but the sight of such well-crafted sweets made her stomach whine.

"I see we have a common interest."

Molly flushed, realizing she was caught, and cursed herself for doing so. "Sherlock said that you hated cafés."

Mycroft stared down at her, calculating his reply in a way that was clearly a Holmes' trait. "Sherlock believes what I wish him to."

Oh.

He released her arm and opened the door, gesturing to it with an upturned palm. She nodded slightly, willing her cheeks to remain pale, and brushed past him. For someone who was used to being ignored, Molly wasn't sure how to handle his attentiveness.

Mycroft led her to a tiny booth situated in the least conspicuous corner of the shoppe, which didn't seem to be necessary as they were alone to begin with, but Molly assumed he had a reason for it. A waitress appeared the moment they sat, as if she had expected them all along.

"Tea and a lemon tart for Miss Hooper."

Molly blinked. "How did you...?" She decided that was a silly question and pushed her lips together.

"Would you prefer to deviate today?"

No, she wouldn't. And she was certain that he already knew that.

Mycroft considered her silence with a cock of his head before waving the waitress away. "Now, on to business."

Molly watched as he pulled an expensive-looking device from an inner pocket of his suit. She knew people carried around digital planners these days, for convenience or status, but she preferred to feel the pages flip beneath her fingers. Molly wondered why Mycroft was in charge of his own schedule. He seemed like the kind of person who would have hired out for that.

"It has come to my attention that my dear brother has not been as _discreet_ as I'd like. He has a habit of forgoing my advice, due to his own pride. It has created a false sense of security in his abilities, I'm afraid. Ah, don't fret Miss Hooper, my brother is safe." Mycroft made a motion toward her folded hands as they sat on the beige tabletop, as if he would reach out and touch them, but he didn't. "For the moment."

Molly felt a suffocating lump rise in her throat, not unlike the one that strangled her as she filled out Sherlock's death certificate. She did not want to fill it out again. "What do you need?"

The waitress appeared before them, holding a tray of deserts in one hand a little porcelain cups in the other. She placed the tart on Molly's side of the table, along with the cup of steaming liquid. The smell hit Molly instantly. _Mint?_ But she had never said—

"Access to your flat, Miss Hooper."

* * *

She wasn't alone.

Pain burst in her chest, a suffocating burning that stole her breath and travelled to the pit of her stomach. She went deaf for a moment. The only noise, thumping over the static, was the rapid beating of her heart. She might have screamed, but realized that her lips were pressed firmly together.

_Oh my god – oh my god – please –_

In the haze of panic, Molly realized that her fingers held a death grip on her cell phone. It was her answer. Help would come.

_Please Mycroft – please!_

Molly pressed the button.

A dark figure shadowed her doorway and this time Molly did scream. It lunged at her, strong gloved hands grasping her shoulders while fighting her arms for the prime real estate of her throat. Her phone was forgotten as she punched and clawed at her attacker, shrieking in a combination of terror and rage. Her knees jerked into the stranger's abdomen to no effect, but her body buzzed with the high of survival. Until she felt cool metal brush against her ear.

Everything slowed to a pause, the throb in her ears a conflicting cadence. She could feel him breathing against her, his chest pressing into hers as his fingers clutched at her shoulder like the maw of a predatory animal. She was going to die. And she hadn't even finished knitting that sweater for her mum—

_Bang!_

Molly exhaled roughly, gagging as she did so. The stranger dropped on her with such abrupt force, trapping her chest and disallowing it to expand. Her shrieks were foreign to her own ears, sounding so far though they came from her own throat. It was the only indication that she was still indeed alive. Her face was wet. Was she bleeding?

Suddenly the weight was lifted and another shadowy figure appeared above her. Her hands moved of their own accord, thrashing in her own defense.

"Miss Hooper!"

That voice. It was stern but not unkind. She knew it.

"Miss Hooper – Molly –"

The fog that had shrouded her vision cleared, and Molly was seeing what was instead of what she believed to be. A pale face, slicked dark hair, which had become a bit ruffled during the course of the night. A striped suit, specked red.

"M-Mycroft?"

His face. She had never seen his dark eyes in such shadow. It played with the planes of his cheeks, inching into every crevice and wrinkle, making him appear more aged but equally as dashing as she believed him to be in that moment. It was him. He came.

"Yes, Miss Hooper."

Molly clutched the fabric of his suit coat, feeling the bite of her fingernails and they pressed into her palm, even through the thick material. She whimpered. It had to have been her, for she doubted it was him. Without really thinking, she would admit later, she pressed her face into the coat, just close enough to his chest to feel the warmth brush against her forehead. He was real. She had to be certain.

"Miss-"

She heard and felt his sigh, as her head dipped lightly with the slight exhale. She wished that he'd do it again and again, to further prove his tangibility and reassure her that this wasn't a dream.

"Molly."

His hands were steady as they touched her cheeks. It was light and gentle, his touch, but firm enough to remove her face from beneath the safety of his coat. She couldn't recall a time that he had ever made contact with her skin before. He was always so aloof, keeping at least a foot between them. As she focused on them, she realized that his fingers were lightly calloused. Strange, for a man in his position.

"We need to inspect your health."

In that moment, with her damp cheeks held between the eldest Holmes brother's palms, Molly returned to herself.

"Sorry! I'm sorry!"

His hands drooped and Molly wiped her eyes, quickly inspecting her fingers afterward. They were sticky and red.

"Mine?"

Mycroft's eyes were as steady as his hands, which now procured a sturdy handkerchief embroidered with a simple yet elegant _M_. He grasped her chin lightly. "No."

Molly couldn't decide if she was allowing him to clear the blood from her face, or if Mycroft was allowing her to brush her face against his handkerchief, his property. Either way, she found she didn't care. As her senses returned, Molly began to notice people shuffling about her, all dressed in black, like moving shadows. Three were pushing a body into a black bag.

"Miss Hooper."

She had been staring. She blamed her chosen profession for her preoccupation with corpses. Suddenly conscious of her audience, she decided to make eye contact with his tie instead. Tiny umbrellas. Odd.

"Are you in pain?"

She shook her head.

"Are you hurt?"

Molly paused for a moment, registering the similarity yet difference in both questions. "No...no..." She rubbed her fingers together, smearing the blood that had all but dried. "H-he frightened me, a bit." The absurdity of her statement wasn't lost on her, but she continued anyway. "He had a gun...to kill me..." Molly exhaled heavily, feeling a great weight remove from her lungs. Her cheeks were damp again, a warm sort of damp that told her she was crying.

"But he didn't, Miss Hooper."

She felt the soft handkerchief brush against her skin so gently that an onslaught of the salty drips poured from her clenched eyelids.

"You are safe."

Molly shifted through clipped memories of her girlhood, hearing those words throughout, although never truly feeling what the sentiment promised. Here, bloodied and rumpled on her bedroom floor, a remnant of the girl she new, yet alive, Molly realized that she could believe him.

Relief. Immense relief.

"We are ready, sir."

A woman, familiar and beautiful in a calculated sort of way, emerged from the darkness and spoke to Mycroft directly. Being overlooked was common, but Molly couldn't find the comfort in it anymore. The woman gestured to the door with delicate hands and Molly was suddenly reminded of lemon tarts.

"Come, Miss Hooper. You cannot stay here for the night."

She jerked as he stood abruptly, counteracting the smoothness of his voice. "What? But-"

He regarded her from where he stood, so high and lofty. No, perhaps not as haughty as she was expecting. She was imaging someone else. Mycroft's face held no expression she could name, aside from mild impatience. An urgency. Molly wondered what sort of widespread security issues she was holding up by simply sitting, waiting for her rescuer to provide some explanation.

A soft jingle, the chorus to ABBA's _Dancing Queen_, suddenly erupted.

The bright show of light alerted the room to the location of Molly's mobile, which thankfully appeared to be in one piece. She blushed to her roots as Mycroft retrieved it and raised an eyebrow at her, before dropping it lightly into her hands. He must have noticed the sender.

"Ah...he hates it – and I was angry, and –" Before she could embarrass herself further, she dropped her eyes to the illuminated screen and focused on the message.

_My dear brother's appearance at your flat confirms that you are indeed still living._

_SH_

Molly sucked in a breath. The purposely selected ringtone should have squashed her surprise. But she hadn't expected contact. Although she should have expected the slight sting that followed his apathy.

"He is actually a rather poor dancer, Miss Hooper."

She allowed a small, shy smile, peering up at Mycroft from underneath the heavy expanse of her matted hair.

Her phone jingled again.

_Liar._

Molly's eyes widened. Sherlock might have appeared psychic on occasion, but she was certain that she could guess the limits of his abilities. Hearing conversations that he wasn't present for should have extended far beyond those boundaries. "How did he hear that?" Her eyes adjusted to the darkness as the light from her mobile faded, and she sought Mycroft's face.

He had put on that same smile he'd given her at Christmas.


End file.
